Darling Anathema
by AutumnCaskette
Summary: G1. Pre-earth. In a desperate attempt to end his creations' war, Primus steals Optimus Prime and Megatron's memories. Without the years of death and hatred, the two find themselves questioning their place in the war and looking to each other for an answer
1. Chapter 1 Motif

Check my profile to find information on why this fic was deleted and is being reposted. I changed my username from RedRequiem to AutumnCaskette, so don't think this fic is stolen. There will be weekly updates, either on Thursday or Friday.

This fic is dedicated to Ha-HeePrime from deviantart. Because she is awesome, and is as close to Op in human form as any of us will get.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. Hasbro does. Where they got the balls to claim ownership over giant alien war-prone robots is beyond me.

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Optimus staggered back as the white-hot light scorched through his chest. It cut through his armor and into Megatron's like a blade, slicing a neat circle with the precision of a scalpel. His optics made contact with his rival's, and he saw his own confusion and pain reflected there.

His fingers had still been knitted in Megatron's as they grappled, but when the blinding beam of white ceased, their grip slackened and the Decepticon fell flush against him. The weight forced Optimus backwards into the pillar behind him. He was aware of it crumbling and of the flames licking its surface, before he hit the ground and his vision failed him completely.

"What… did you do?" he heard Megatron's hoarse voice whisper.

"It wasn't me…" he murmured weakly, the pain of his wounds sapping the strength from his words. "It was the Matrix. And… maybe…" Optimus lost consciousness before the thought that he had heard Primus' voice inside his mind had fully formed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

At first, he thought he'd gone blind.

He could feel heat searing the air around him, penetrating deep into his armor. There was something heavy weighing down on his limbs and chest, and he suppressed the violent urge to convulse under the pressure.

He tried once more to light his optics, desperate to know where he was… desperate to know anything.

Gradually, a grainy picture came into being, corrupted in part by smoke. The twisted metal frame of a building stretched above him, an ominous silhouette against the ash strewn sky. Flames were slowly eating their way through the structure, surrounding him in a closing semi-circle.

Fear shot its way through his systems as he realized that the pressure on his body was a mech, his white armor seeping a dangerous amount of energon over his own. He started to cover one of the other's wounds with his hands, desperate to slow the flow of energon. A threatening pain flashed across his awareness when he tried to move, and it was then that he knew not all of the energon belonged to the stranger.

He bit back a scream and rolled the two of them over. The other mech didn't stir, and panic surged through him as he considered the possibility that the mech might be deactivated. "Hey," he choked out. He brought his hand to the side of the stranger's face. There was no tell-tale chill of death in the white armor, and that relief calmed him slightly.

The corners of the stranger's mouth curved in a grimace of pain. Red optics flickered to life, strong and hostile, filled to the brim with the surrounding fire.

He felt a strange sense of familiarity and anticipation when the optics met his own.

The white mech held his gaze for only the briefest of moments before he kicked himself out and away from him. "Who the slag are you?" he demanded, cradling a wounded arm against his chest.

The danger and aggression radiating from the other froze the first mech in place. But then a cold web of new panic braided its way through his spark as he realized he couldn't answer the question. Blue optics widened in shock. "I..." his voice trailed away.

The white mech sneered roguishly, all antagonism. "I'm waiting."

His blue optics narrowed defensively. "Fine, then who—"

"Optimus!" someone shouted from nearby. A black and white mech with an azure visor fought his way through the fire, blaster gripped tightly in one hand. He searched the rubble, looking frantic and desperate. His armor was streaked with ash and energon splatter, the luminescent lifeblood giving him an almost ethereal glow. As he spun slightly, he caught sight of the two mechs and froze, mouth forming a thin line. With slow and practiced precision he raised his weapon to aim at the white mech.

For a fraction of a second the red optics glowed in surprise, but then they flared as the stranger staggered haltingly to his feet and jumped backwards without any inhibition. The last glimpse of him was a mocking grin, a trail of energon at the corners of his lips.

"Slag!" the black and white mech cursed, rushing forward to look out over the ledge the stranger had disappeared over. He turned back, looking slightly temperamental. For some reason, anger looked indescribably unnatural on the newcomer's face. "What in Primus' name happened, Optimus? Why haven't you been answering your com? Prowl and Ironhide are going ballistic! And that had to have been a near perfect shot at Megatron… Why didn't you take it?"

Gentle optics paled in confusion. "What…?"

The newcomer seemed to deflate. He held his hands up as though trying to calm himself, and paused for a moment. The scene was almost comical, and the first mech wondered if the other remembered they were being encircled by fire. "And, I'm back," he breathed. "Sorry, Prime… I'm a little on edge. I almost got my head taken off by Ravage a few blocks back. Didn't see him, what with it being dark and him being black and sneaky." He seemed to become thoughtful. "Creepy sonuva—,"

"I'm sorry…" the first mech interrupted. "But I…"

The newcomer misinterpreted. "Nah, don't mention it. We'll get other chances to blast Megatron." He smiled warmly, and it had a comforting effect on the other. "C'mon Optimus, we need to bail." He crossed over to the kneeling mech and looped an arm around his waist, helping him to his feet.

The blue optics faded to grey. "Excuse me. I'm sorry, but… who's Optimus?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It took a moment for Prime's question to fully sink in, but when it did, Jazz noticed two things.

The first was that Optimus looked, well… different than he had earlier that cycle. He looked almost younger… not really, but his features were less hardened, as though he had somehow erased a millennia's worth of battle and pain. The responsibility and false blame that normally weighed on his shoulders was gone. His optics held none of the torture of war. If anything, they looked almost naïve. Optimus was not naïve. Optimus was the farthest thing from it. The second was that the Prime was looking at him without a single ounce of recognition.

He slouched in disbelief, discarding the possibilities that this was a joke or a dream. Optimus wouldn't do this to him in the middle of a battle, in the rare likelihood that he would do it at all. "Oh, boy…" Jazz murmured as his spark skipped a pulse. "Ratchet's going to have some fun with this one." He tried to work a level of composure into his voice as he addressed his commander. "Um, you," he managed lamely and mentally slapped himself for it. "Optimus is you." As an afterthought he added "Jazz is me."

The blue optics left Jazz's face and hit the ground with an almost painful amount of dejection. "Optimus…" he repeated softly.

Jazz maneuvered the two of them through the twisting and torn spires of the now demolished complex, and into the street beyond. He attempted to inject some humor into his tone, hoping to lighten the mood. Whether he was trying to lighten the Prime's mood or his own was uncertain. "You're Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, bearer of the Matrix. You beat the slag out of Decepticons on a regular basis, and are especially good at reducing Megatron to a babbling paranoid glitch." After surveying the skies and finding them devoid of the seekers that had been harrying him earlier, he refocused on Optimus.

There was no flare of remembrance, no spark of understanding.

He really didn't remember.

Jazz buried the rising implications beneath layers of professionalism. If he thought about what Prime's memory loss meant at present time, he would panic. Really panic. But he was on a battlefield. Panic would be bad.

The blue flickered momentarily to grey again, before brightening. "I'm… a soldier. That's what this means, right?" the way he said the word made it sound strange and foreign.

"Soldier's a bit of an understatement, but yeah. You are. I am too." Jazz took a moment to fully appreciate the grace with which Prime was taking the situation. Prime was still Prime, poise and all.

"Where…?" Optimus asked, optics trying in vain to comprehend the devastation.

Thankful for a question he knew how to answer, Jazz replied "We're in a city called Tarmus. Although I guess it isn't really a city anymore," he added, acknowledging the wreckage. "We're here buying time for an ore facility to evacuate its personnel and transport its cache." Jazz paused. "Look… it might be a good idea for us to hang tight until I can get a medic around to check you out. That puncture in your chest looks… not good. How much can you remember? Do you know anything about yourself? Anything at all?"

Optimus looked to the side, feeling like a fool. "I wish I could say I do, but I don't."

Jazz nodded distractedly and continued walking, still supporting most of the Prime's weight. "There's a hanger we can crash in up ahead. Why don't you start thinking of some things you want me to explain?" He turned a corner, coming into view of what had once been the main front, and knew he had made a crucial oversight.

Upon seeing the shattered and burnt corpses that lined the buildings, coating the streets in thick layers of wet energon, Optimus froze.

Jazz recognized the cold that entered the Autobot's commander's optics and readied himself.

Optimus was shaking, from shock, from confusion, from horror… and most of all from an intense and incomprehensible feeling of guilt. "Explain this," he whispered feebly. He couldn't look at the streets. He couldn't look at Jazz. Instead, he looked to the sky.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Energon was slicked over his hands, over his arms, over his chest, spattered in his mouth.

He was grinning like a maniac.

He wasn't sure what this was, but it sure as slag felt fulfilling. The white mech also didn't know how he was still standing with a gaping hole in his chest, but didn't bother to question it. He'd figure it out later. There were far too many glorious things to concentrate on without being preoccupied with a mystery wound.

He dragged his stolen blade through the waist of a mech that came out of an alley in front of him, spewing gore across the metal walls and street. Green optics widened in shock and confusion. "Lord Megatron…?" he coughed weakly through the fatal amount of energon escaping his mouth.

_Lord Megatron…_

A few of the others had called him that too. His red optics were inexplicably drawn to the purple mark on the mech's armor. He'd seen many like it, along with an almost equal number of red ones. As he abandoned the dying mech, he wondered vaguely what they represented. All he knew was that he'd been attacked without provocation as soon as he had left that building, and he hadn't been very inclined towards mercy as a result.

He became aware of a new mech standing unconcernedly in the middle of the street before him. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the newcomer was blocking his path on purpose. He studied the blue and white armor, slightly annoyed by the fact that the stranger's face was completely obscured by a mask. Masks were a mark of cowardice and a lack of expertise to him. Besides… it made him curious, and that was incredibly annoying.

"Looking for a fight?" the white mech asked, smirking arrogantly.

An unnervingly unemotional voice answered him. "Negative, Lord Megatron."

"Why the slag does everyone keep calling me that?" he demanded, though he didn't really care if he got an answer. He was too hyped up on battle lust to really worry about his distressing lack of memories.

"Because it is who you are."

Pain. Shock. Cold. Fury. Aggression. Power. Thirst. All filled his mind almost instantaneously. He didn't know how he knew, but he was sure that it was coming from the mech in front of him. It felt as though someone were inside him, invading his mind, forcing him to feel the sensations. Flashes of color and still frames laced over his vision, but as soon as he tried to grasp the memories, they faded. He sank to his knees, clutching the sides of his head, optics wide and fluctuating.

"Something… has been done to you. Your memories have been sealed, and my telepathy cannot reach them. We must remove you from the battlefield. You are not safe." The blue and white mech stepped over the corpse of Megatron's latest kill, and offered his hand without fear. "I am Soundwave. I will help you."

Megatron stared at the hand, wanting more than anything to simply cut it away. But then he looked up into the mask, and a sense of familiarity washed over him and sated the desire. He trusted Soundwave… he might not remember why, but he knew that he did. Megatron took the hand and pulled himself to his feet. "I have the distinct feeling there are some things I should know."

"I have the distinct feeling you are correct." Soundwave motioned for him to walk beside him as he turned down the alley.

"Lord Megatron, huh?" he asked with a sneer.

"Affirmative," came the blasé reply.

"So far, no complaints." He grinned, placing his hands behind his head. "Continue."


	2. Chapter 2 Ars Antiqua

Megatron/Starscream/Soundwave scenes are fun to write. I can't help but feel sorry for Soundwave for having to put up with them, though…

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

There was something about looking down on mechs lying prostrated and powerless at the base of his throne that never failed to send a thrill through his systems. There were so many different ways a soldier's optics could light up in fear, so many shapes his pleas could take… Megatron had been listening to their supplications for nearly a cycle and had yet to hear one repeated. The immeasurable control he had over their lives gave him an almost heady sense of anticipation.

And yet a familiar sensation of boredom was already clawing itself into his spark.

He wasn't sure why the feeling was so familiar, or why mechs begging for his mercy would ever become tedious, but he was beginning to lose patience. There was an element of the dark surrounding him that seemed to seep into his consciousness… It wasn't merely the shadows hanging in the room; the blackness had something dwelling inside of it. The air itself was thick with bloodlust and depravity. Megatron ached to give into that calling.

Soundwave's voice cut through the black. "You are dismissed. Return to the barracks. Lord Megatron will resume audiences tomorrow."

The kneeling Decepticons rose to their feet, almost toppling themselves in their haste to escape from their commander's gaze. They barely managed the calm it took to salute. There was a small quiver in their every motion.

A smirk curved Megatron's lips, his optics flaring slightly. "I'm guessing you sensed my unrest, Soundwave?"

"I do not believe that mutilating loyal Decepticon soldiers is the most practical means of easing tedium," the telepath responded dryly, giving a faint bow.

Starscream let out a shrill maniacal laugh from his position to the right of the throne. "It'd be close enough to normal for them not to suspect anything." The seeker shrugged, lifting his hands animatedly while shaking his head. "Honestly, it's more suspicious for him not to. If you want to keep his condition a secret so badly, you should have let him have his fun."

Megatron's deceitfully charming smile widened. "It isn't too late to catch them in the hall." He gave a soft laugh, leaning back against the cool metal of his throne. "But I suppose you'd rather me save my fervor for battle, correct?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave responded, his monotone voice somehow portraying unending patience

The white mech nursed the energon cube held carelessly in his left hand. He knew he should feel annoyed at the patronizing air Soundwave seemed to be adopting, but it meant nothing to him. The red light of his optics, always dangerous, was now tinged with amusement. "Remind me what we're fighting over again."

Starscream took slow steps down from Megatron's dais so that he could stand beside the communications officer. "The Autobots are encroaching on our territory near Uraya. They seem quite determined to regain all the land around their precious Iacon, and since Uraya is the largest and most crucial of the tristates… Well, needless to say they want it back."

Hook and Scrapper had been able to reinstate factual information such as geography and history into Megatron's mind despite their inability to address his vast memory loss. Megatron knew that Uraya and the other tristates were in Cybertron's north, surrounding the Autobot capital. He knew he had fought campaigns there before with a high fatality rate in both factions. He knew this, but he had no recollection of the instances beyond what he'd read. The information was textbook and impersonal.

Megatron's thoughts drifted to the mech he had awoken with, the first memory he had… He'd learned the mech's name and position in the opposing army not long after he'd first spoken to Soundwave in Tarmus. His optics brightened as he wondered if the injured Prime had come any nearer to retrieving his memories than he had. "Has Optimus Prime's presence been noted in any battles since Tarmus?"

"Negative, Lord Megatron," replied Soundwave, referring to a datapad clutched in his hands.

Starscream crossed his arms, another laugh parting his lips. "It's rumored that the Autobots have him secluded somewhere for his safety. His troops seem no more aware of the nature of his predicament than yours are of yours. The coward."

A mild interest penetrated the boredom. "Do these rumors suggest where?"

The air commander shrugged. "Unfortunately, no… But we can assume it's well behind enemy lines. They wouldn't jeopardize their precious Prime's life by placing him anywhere that could fall prey to one of our skirmishes."

Megatron considered for moment, the memory of blue optics rising unbidden to the front of his mind. "Soundwave… those mechs under your command…"

"The cassettes," Soundwave clarified.

The tyrant's mouth narrowed into a thin line. "In the next battle, have them keep a close watch on the highest ranking Autobot officers present. Make sure they understand the necessity of stealth. If the Autobots mention where the Prime is being kept, I want to know."

Starscream stared before breaking into a painfully high-pitched protest. "Surely there are more important issues that warrant your concern! The Prime is of no threat to us!"

Megatron's optics flared threateningly and his voice grew deadly smooth. "Strange. I was under the impression that he was the commander of the enemy army. Unless the information you gave me was false, he is quite arguably the only mech standing between me and victory."

"It will be done, Lord Megatron," Soundwave spoke easily above Starscream's babblings, turning and leaving the throne room.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

White.

Every structure, every material surrounding him was white. Pure. Unblemished. The city was relatively small, but sheltered one of the largest surviving communities of refugees. The streets were thick with mechs that had escaped their fates. Fear, aggression, and paranoia appeared to have no place in their smiles. They were protected; and though there was no guarantee how long the protection would last, it was enough.

It was strange… He'd only spent a short time amongst the energon-slick battlefields of the west, and yet such a semblance of peace seemed surreal to him. That revelation alone — that peace seemed unnatural — only heightened his sense of restlessness.

"It's beautiful," Optimus murmured, looking over the balcony to the retreat below.

Ratchet looked up from the medical equipment he'd been unloading and smiled. "Yes… Eirenon is a jewel. One of the only cities to remain untouched."

"But why am I here?" Optimus asked, turning away from the scene. His optics were dull, his lips parted beneath the mask. "This war… whether or not I agree with it… I want to fight alongside the rest of the Autobots. I can't stay here, safe and secure, when those under my command are dying. I don't belong here, Ratchet."

The medic bowed his head, still trying to busy himself with the supplies he had brought. "We don't know what happened to you, Prime. Normal cases of memory loss are caused by head trauma, perhaps emotional trauma, but you've never been susceptible to that. You experienced no such injury, and none of the procedures that I or my colleagues have performed have made the slightest bit of difference." His voice grew soft. "Something dissected your spark. There's no way to know what kind of damage has been done, or what consequences may occur in the future as a result."

Optimus' optics retained their light, but the emotion behind them died as Ratchet stood to face him fully.

"I know you don't remember me, but I've known you for a damn long time now. Memories or not, there are inherent qualities you still possess. You're still Optimus Prime, and I know it's killing you to feel like you're running. You feel like you're deserting them, you feel weak and helpless, and I'm pretty slagging sure that the next time we hear of a battle's high casualties you'll blame yourself." Ratchet's tone grew stony, unyielding, as he reached his point. "Your spark has been tampered with. If your condition were to deteriorate while on the battlefield, what then? You don't remember combat, and you sure as hell don't remember what it is to take a life. I'm sorry, Prime… but in your present condition…"

"I'm a liability," Optimus finished wryly. He walked past the medic, optics downcast and faraway.

Ratchet couldn't suppress a slight shudder. Optimus might look younger, might seem more innocent, but there was still a power that clung to him. "I'm sorry… But until we can heal you completely, this is the most rational course of action. Eirenon is perhaps the last city in which we can remain in one place long enough to make progress. What happened to you… it shouldn't even be possible."

Optimus looked over the datapads littering the desk against the far wall. At Prime's request, he'd been supplied with every historic document of the war that could be given to him. "That other…" Red optics, alive with fire, flashed across his thoughts. "Megatron… He's still fighting even though he suffered the same phenomenon."

There was a pause. "Megatron is a mech born of brutality and turmoil. War is his world. He is seemingly unaffected because he awoke in his element. I imagine that there was always a part of him disposed to aggression, something that even a clean slate couldn't erase. Perhaps if he had awoken somewhere besides a battlefield there might have been hope… but he didn't, and he adapted." Ratchet closed the crate that had been carrying his supplies. "War is his world, but peace is yours. Even before this amnesia, war was a concept you struggled with. You fought to protect and defend. You fought to give others hope. You fought so that we could regain our peace. You fought to unify our factions. But, Optimus, you never fought for the sake of fighting, and that is why Megatron is still on the field and you are here."

"I can't stay within the walls of Eirenon and do nothing," Optimus said smoothly, the strength of his voice giving Ratchet momentary doubt.

"Then do something" Ratchet managed smoothly. "Jazz and I spent the entire trek here answering your questions about the war." He started to leave the room. "And besides asking the aforementioned questions, you stayed completely silent… except to say that you don't understand."

Prime's hands clenched on the datapad he had been trying to decipher. When he had said that he didn't understand, he hadn't been talking about the war itself. Optimus understood what the Autobots were fighting for. He understood why their half of the war was necessary.

He had not meant that he didn't understand the war.

It was Megatron that he didn't understand.

His optics dimmed.

He wanted to understand.

Ratchet continued speaking over Prime's thoughts. "The best thing you can do is try to reacquaint yourself with your past. Maybe the more you learn, the closer you'll come to remembering. It seems to me that, if you want to regain control over your life, that'd be a decent start."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Megatron walked the streets of his Kaon, ignoring the optics that darted fervently to his face and then lowered themselves in submission. Truth be told, he found it irritating that he couldn't disappear into the crowd. Yes, power and fame were exhilarating, especially since he had allegedly won them through spattering the lifeblood of countless beings across his hands and spark. And yet, he felt that something was missing… something which he found he still desired.

One look at the Decepticon soldiers -- supposedly the most depraved, animalistic, and feared beings in the universe -- as they cowered away from him, gave him the answer.

He wanted a fight he didn't know he'd make it out of. There was some sort of feral craving that darkened his spark, shrieking in him to find a challenge. A danger. A gamble.

A wild sense of abandon overtook him. More than anything, he wanted to lash out at the mechs around him, to tear into them, to torture and mutilate, to light the black streets with florescent lifeblood.

He suppressed it with a haphazard shrug, and settled for a drink instead.

"I must be the sanest insane mech on the face of this planet," he murmured through a smile.

His optics narrowed minutely. This planet…

Cybertron…

An entire planet swept up in, devoured by, war.

A war that revolved around him… and that other.

"Optimus Prime…" Megatron whispered over the rim of his high grade.

It seemed impossible that optics as pristine and blameless as the blue ones he remembered could have seen an amount of death and desecration equal to his own.

Fleetingly, Megatron wondered if his optics had looked innocent when he first awoke… before he had — what was the phrase Soundwave had used? Ah yes. Returned to his natural state.

When he found the stray Prime, he'd have to remember to ask.


	3. Chapter 3 Canticle

If you've read the link on my profile (the devArt journal) then you know that I've made a policy for myself that says "No smut!" The limit to what I will do can be found in this chapter… If you're looking for more action than that, then you had best find another author. I was going to take these scenes out too, but I really need them to show Megs' character progression through this fic.

REST IN PEACE

TAYLOR RILES

DECEMBER 20, 1989 – SEPTEMBER 26, 2008

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The smoke made it difficult for Jazz to discern the expression on Prowl's face, even though their position on the building's roof placed them in better light. "I don't think that they've figured it out yet. They wouldn't still be tailing us if they had," Jazz murmured.

"I agree…" came the tired reply. "The cassettes would have been called off if they'd discovered anything of value." Prowl knelt on one knee, surveying the ruins stretched out below him. The battle had wandered south a few hours earlier. The Decepticon survivors had fled, with Ironhide heading the pursuit. "We should alert Ratchet. He should know Megatron is searching for them."

Jazz shook his head. "Nah… It'll just be one more thing for him to fret over. Let him concentrate on Prime's recovery without worrying about being attacked. The cassettes won't find anything anyway… Rumble and Laserbeak followed Ironhide's group, right? But Ironhide doesn't know Prime's location; he only knows his condition." His visor caught the light from a flaring fire, reflecting the orange glow. "Frenzy bailed when he figured the fight had gone sour, and the others stayed with Megatron at the front in Cannix. The only mechs that know the full truth are you and me, and we're too damned smart to say anything."

Prowl forced himself to his feet, ignoring the untended wound in his side. "I'd prefer it if Ratchet had a warning, however small the threat."

There was a sigh, followed by the breath of a laugh. "Yeah, okay. If it'll ease your recharge, I'll send word as soon as we make it back to base."

The tactician nodded without response, and began to make his way to the stairway that would lead him back down to the surface.

"There's something that's bothering me though…" Jazz called after him, hands behind his head. "I mean… why would Megatron care where Prime was, as long as he wasn't in the front lines kicking his aft? You'd think the 'Cons would be relieved enough to let it lie."

Prowl's face was expressionless, but his optics darkened understandingly. "Think about it Jazz… If you'd lost your memory, and knew someone else had lost his too, and for the same reason… Wouldn't you want to find him? He probably thinks that Optimus has the key to curing his condition. They're the only two like cases on Cybertron."

"Oh, I'd want to find them," Jazz whispered sadly. "But not for information." He paused. "I think I'd want to find them…" he looked out of the fires of battle, lighting the air with a soft saffron light, "… just to be with them."

Prowl stopped, looking back at Jazz.

An out-of-place smile curved the special operative's lips. "To be with the one mech who is in the same place."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The high-grade struck the wall just to the left of Starscream's head, spattering against the gray. "That was mature," the seeker commented offhandedly.

Megatron paused in his rage, optics lighting on the air commander with aggressive intent.

"But continue," Starscream amended. "Temper tantrums make you look oh-so-regal."

Five steps later, Megatron was towering over the seeker, his fists slamming into the cold metal on either side of the flier's helmet. "When I first came back from Tarmus, I noticed still-recovering wounds on your wings and side that could only have been caused by a fusion cannon." He moved to press one arm against Starscream's chest, proffering the aforementioned weapon. "So I'm guessing it wouldn't be too out-of-character for me to beat the slag out of you."

Defiance tinged with fear flickered in Starscream's optics for the merest moment. Then the red flared sweetly. The seeker wrapped a hand around Megatron's wrist and stepped closer with a sneer. "You know what else wouldn't be out-of-character…?" he purred, grazing his superior's chest with warm fingertips. The touch was slow and smooth, obviously practiced at finding the grooves in the white armor. Starscream studied Megatron's face, looking for an objection and finding none. With a smirk he closed the distance completely, lips softly tracing a path that mimicked his fingers.

The tyrant was fleetingly taken aback, but recovered. Suddenly it made sense why Starscream had been so comfortable in the commander's quarters, and familiar enough with them to instantly find the high-grade. There was no denying that the seeker was attractive, even if he was irritating as hell. The same sense of abandon that had overcome Megatron continuously since Tarmus once again ravaged his systems, but this time it had a different intended outlet.

Megatron flashed a roguish smile before he slammed the seeker against the wall, trapping him. He lifted Starscream's face delicately with one finger, marveling at how the flier's smaller body trembled beneath his own. He considered the air commander's expression, briefly wondering if the insolence and wit the seeker normally devoted his mouth to would be felt in his kisses. His lips parted as he lowered his head, determined to find out.

_Blue optics, soft and filled with concern. A warm, passionate voice. A body, slick with energon, pressed against his own._

With a furious yell, Megatron shoved Starscream away from him as the vision flashed across his consciousness.

Starscream hit the floor, letting out a small yelp of surprise. "What is your malfunction?" he snapped, holding an arm that had been dented from the tyrant's grip.

"Get out." Megatron's voice was level and cold, thick with an underlying threat.

The air commander recognized the tone, got to his feet, and was gone before Megatron could even glance at him.

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The chapel was small, attached to the manor by a roofed terrace. It was comprised of a single round room with a high ceiling, encircled by four stories of balconies. The entire space was white, in keeping with the pattern of the rest of Eirenon.

Optimus walked up the aisle with slow, cautious steps. He knew the chapel was empty, but still felt a pressure in between his shoulders that gave him the sensation that he was being watched. The pews fell behind him on either side, but he did not take a seat.

His steps brought him to a point just below the raised dais.

The Prime stopped, blue optics fixing on the face of the marble statue in the center of the altar. The lights hanging from the vaulted ceiling gave off a dim light that was swallowed by the glow coming from the high windows of the back wall. The effect was soothing, almost ethereal, as it played off of the carved mech's features.

He searched the statue's face, unsure of exactly what he was looking for. Something he'd recognize? Some sense of purpose that he could recover? An answer? A reason? Surely, Prime thought, if Primus existed, whatever had happened to himself and the Decepticon Commander had to be due to His design. The two leaders of Cybertron's factions could not simultaneously lose their memories without some sort of divine providence…could they?

Optimus sank to his knees with none but the statue to bear witness. The light that spilled from the stained glass poured over his armor and the surrounding white, lending to his countenance an almost appearance. When the next words left his lips, they were trembling. "I'm not sure… whether or not I was religious," he spoke into the emptiness, his optics rising to look back at the face high above him. "Ratchet says I was, but… There's no way for me to know whether I prayed out of faith, or to try to give hope to those under my command. Maybe it was both." His shoulders shook as he laughed lightly. "I guess you're the only one that knows that now…"

He fumbled over the next words, and fell into a momentary silence. Prime's head was bowed as he tried once more to understand everything that had happened since Tarmus. When he spoke again, his voice was strong with renewed conviction. "They're dying. Whether or not I knew them before, whether or not any of this is the truth…" He steadied himself. "They're dying. Ratchet says there isn't anything I can do for them, not like this. But that can't be true. It can't be. There's always something that can be done; and you must know that I'm willing. I've heard so many different stories from so many different lips, all of them telling me that I'm a 'savior,' a 'hero'..."

Blue optics fixed on those that were marble and lifeless. "They call me your harbinger. I'm told that you work through me." Optimus abandoned his humble position, rising to his feet. Anger flickered in his spark, and the warmth left his voice in favor of desperation. "Then work through me! Do something! Anything! I can't just stay here watching video feeds while mechs die in my name. In your name!"

White marble stared down at him, silent.

"Help them! Please… Help them…" He took a step back, voice weakening. It wasn't until a memory of red optics and a harrowing smile touched his mind that he made his last request. "Protect him from this. He isn't what he was."

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Megatron paced.

It annoyed him that he was pacing.

But he still paced… arms folded, head bowed, the whole deal.

Every now and then he would look up, only to meet his own optics reflected in the window beside him. That annoyed him as well. He could see so many different emotions played out in the red, but no matter how much the fury ate away at his spark, he couldn't undo one simple fact.

He looked so young.

Rage screamed in his mind, a rage that had led to the deaths of countless mechs… And yet his optics looked like those of an arrogant, reckless youth. Despite all the danger, the corruption, the bloodlust, the insanity, the charm, the treachery, the aggression, the power, the egotism… he looked _young_! The young were vulnerable. He was not vulnerable.

His fists clenched against his arms, and his steps slowed until he came to a stop near his berth. Without a second thought, he fell backwards to lounge across its length, one arm over his optics, the other behind his head. "Dammit… This is ludicrous."

Not for the first time that day, images of the stray Prime dominated his thoughts. Megatron's optics might look young, but they did not scream it like the amnesiac Autobot's had. He had seen countless video feeds and datapads strewn with images of Optimus Prime and of himself before the incident in Tarmus. There was simply no comparison with the images of them now. In Optimus's face, calm wisdom and power had been replaced by the naïve concern that had been etched in his every expression when they first awoke.

He wondered if the Prime had indeed found sanctuary somewhere, or whether it was just a ploy. The cassettes had come back devoid of any valuable information. All they had been able to do was confirm that Optimus Prime was no longer taking part in battle, a fact that aggravated Megatron. A simple loss of memory, and Optimus was no longer capable of leading his troops? Was the Prime truly so inadequate?

And yet there was something tantalizing about the Prime being in such a weakened state…

"I bet he has a beautiful scream…" he murmured with a smile. "I wonder if he remembers that he's too high and mighty to beg."

It was then that he realized one of his hands had been given over to lazily tracing circles over his own chest.

With a wordless yell of frustration, he slammed his fist into his berth. The metal screeched in protest, giving under the pressure. "Slaggit!" He snarled, shaking. "Damn him…"

"Megatron," someone said calmly.

His fusion cannon rose and pointed at the voice's location before it had even fully registered.

He was aiming at empty air, with nothing but a windowpane behind it. "What…?" he whispered. He slid off his berth, closing the distance between himself and the glass. It was then his optics locked on a reflected image above his shoulder.

Someone was standing behind him.

Megatron spun, set to fire.

"Lower your weapon. It will not harm me."

He lowered his weapon automatically. The tyrant stared down at his arm in shock, confused as to how it had ended up there by his side. Megatron growled, refocusing his angry attention on the stranger. "Just what the slag do you… think… you're…" his voice trailed off and died.

He would have called the figure a silhouette, except that it was pale blue-white instead of black. The outline was definitely that of a mech, but there were no features. It was comprised of a two-dimensional pool of color that rippled with its every movement.

"Who are you?" Megatron demanded heatedly, regaining his composure.

The voice was smooth as it answered without hesitation or lead-in. "I am Primus."

Megatron stared in temporary shock. His head tilted slightly. "Heh… heh… heh heh…" He dissolved into laughter, arms crossed over his waist.

"Silence. I do not have long. The time in which I may be materialized is limited."

The laughter died in his throat.

"You must stop this, Megatron."

"Stop what?" enquired the Decepticon commander, smirking.

"This war heralds the destruction of your race. You must stop it."

Having reasserted control over his voice, Megatron didn't hesitate to renew? his laughter. "Ha! And why the slag would I do that? I don't know about you being Primus —but hey, if you are, good for you; must be nice— but I can tell you right now, I have no intention of stopping anything." His hands rose in an all-encompassing gesture. "This power? This control? It's a beautiful thing. However I might have thought or felt before, right now I am perfectly happy to just play along. Until Hook and Scrapper find a way to fix whatever the slag's wrong with me, I'm going to have my fun, and I'll be damned if anyone —divine or not— can stop me."

"Do not be fooled, Megatron," the specter replied smoothly. "You are damned. You have damned yourself and all those that follow you."

Megatron let out another laugh even more insane than the last. "Oh really now? I was under the impression all of our sparks went to the same place when we died."

"The Well has two currents. One is under my dominion; the other is under the dominion of my brother. You would not want to be under his thrall."

"And?" Megatron shrugged. "Even if I've essentially slagged myself, I don't see how I can be blamed for the choices of the rest of the Decepticons. They made their own decisions. I don't see how you can say I damned them."

"They followed you across the line and into the blackness. You conceived the poison that destroyed their light."

"Uh-huh. So that makes me what? An accessory to damnation? Wow." He clapped his hands twice. "Bad me."

Silence.

The humor in Megatron's voice vanished. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

"I wish for you to end this. I wish for there to be peace." A note of pain entered the words. "I am not permitted to interfere, yet I have broken my bounds in order that I may do so. But there is only so much that is within my capability to enact. If I so desired, I could force a peace. However, I refuse to tread on my creations' free will in that fashion. That is why it must fall to you, and to the Prime."

"The Prime?" Something clicked into place in Megatron's thoughts. An unprecedented fury erupted in his consciousness as the revelation took root. "Our memories… You did this!"

There was a pause. "I have initiated the means necessary for you to make a choice true to your own beliefs, rather than a choice fueled by years of bias and hate."

The Decepticon's yell held enough aggression to make even the most gallant mech cower. "You took my slagging memories! You slashed up my spark, yet you have the gall to tell me that you don't toy with free will! You sanctimonious, self-righteous, arrogant, pit-spawned slag heap!" A tiny malnourished voice in the back of his mind tried to tell him it probably wasn't wise to badmouth a god, but he ignored it. "You honestly think you can use me? Me?! I'll tear out your slagging throat!"

"My throat happens to comprise two entire districts of Cybertron, so that might prove difficult for you."

Shrieking a wordless cry, he fired two blasts from his fusion cannon into the wraith's chest.

The blasts failed to pass through. They were absorbed, the specter's color momentarily rippling purple. "We do not have time for this, Megatron. He is waiting for you. He is in pain."

Megatron paused. "What…?"

The window behind him flickered, almost seeming to undulate.

Megatron turned to face the glass, staring through it into what looked strangely like a chapel.

"Step through it," Primus murmured. "He will meet you on the other side. Touch the statue's chest when you wish to return. I leave this in your hands, Megatron."

The god's image shimmered and died.


End file.
